


Hold on to me (cause I'm a little unsteady)

by natashastarkrogers



Series: Unsteady [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Angry Sex, Angst, Blow Jobs, Enemies to Lovers, Friends With Benefits, Frottage, M/M, Oblivious Tony Stark, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-15
Updated: 2019-08-15
Packaged: 2020-09-01 18:36:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20262679
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/natashastarkrogers/pseuds/natashastarkrogers
Summary: He drops to his knees too fast and he can feel his joints protesting. He's too old for this shit, the marble hard and cold and unforgiving in a way he's gonna pay for later. But that's an irrelevant problem for future Tony. A Tony that is not consumed by the feel of powerful, muscular thighs under his hands. Thighs he wants wrapped around his hips while they rut against each other until both of them forget their names, forget their history, forget all the good reasons why they shouldn't be doing this.ORBucky gets hurt during a mission. Tony is grudgingly worried. Angry sex ensues.





	Hold on to me (cause I'm a little unsteady)

**Author's Note:**

> This was born out of a need to work on something short, something I could finish and post, something that could motivate me to keep on working on the bigger project that is the complete rewrite of "a bottle marked poison". 
> 
> Did I just write 5k of porn as a pep talk to myself? Yes, yes I did. Also, I needed to practice writing porn cause of reasons, but it's me, so any excuse is a good excuse to throw some angst into the mix...
> 
> Hope this is filthy enough, enjoy! ;)

Sweat is cooling at the nape of his neck and his black t-shirt is sticking to his skin uncomfortably as he stalks the quiet hallway like an angry, caged animal, his hands in tight fists at his sides.

He looks like a madman and if he were to meet anyone, anyone at all, he would have no explanation whatsoever for why he is where he is, but he's too far gone to care. 

He doesn't care that he should probably shower, wash away the sweat, the blood and the adrenaline still riding so high it's whitening the edges of his vision. Doesn't care that he should just go the fuck home, down half a bottle of whiskey and contemplate his life choices. Doesn't care that he shouldn't do this, shouldn't be here, shouldn't be swiping his watch over the door lock and barely waiting to gain access to a room he really shouldn't have access to before storming inside. 

Doesn't care that he's supposed to hate him and so, what if _ he _ got hit and a five storey building collapsed under his feet, swallowing him whole? He's fine. And if he wasn't, it shouldn't matter anyway cause he. doesn't. fucking. care. 

He ignores the lie, he's good at that, just like he ignores the cut on his eyebrow that's been throbbing for almost two hours now. He should have let someone from med take care of it, instead of hand waving them away, but he was too much in a rush to bother. His left arm aches, a constant companion in the past couple of years and he ignores that too as the door closes silently behind him. 

He spares a glance to the deserted living room before heading straight for the bedroom, his breath coming out in pants that sound loud and out of place even to his ears, his nails leaving half moon indentations in his palms. 

Sunlight pours from the floor to ceiling windows, painting the king sized bed and the cream colored walls in the purple tones of the sunset.

No sign of him. No clothes or weapons haphazardly laying on the floor or the bed or the dresser. Nothing in the room indicates that someone's home and for a second he finally feels like the fool he is, standing frantically in someone else's quarters, heart in his throat, hands uselessly grasping at nothing. 

But then the bathroom door opens, and _ he _ walks in the room, and Tony releases the breath that was stuck in his throat and he hates himself for the relief that courses through his body.

When Barnes notices him, he stills, hands caught in the towel he's drying his long hair with, dark sweatpants hanging low on his trimmed hips, chest a kaleidoscope of bruises and still wet from the shower he was clearly taking while Tony was out of his mind with fear and anxiety. 

There's pressure in his ears, and the world goes a little bit blurry as Tony catalogues and assesses his injuries.

He couldn't, earlier. Couldn't allow himself to think beyond the initial moment of panic when he saw him fall down after taking a blast from behind, right before the entire warehouse he was sniping from collapsed under him. Couldn't even make it first to the scene, too busy fighting off doombots that seemed to multiply to chance a rescue. It was Thor who had dug through the rubble and got him out. Steve who had rushed to his side and half carried him toward the S.H.I.E.L.D. post to get medical attention once the battle was finally over.

Tony had watched silently from afar, busy with the debrief and lacking a good excuse to ask after him.

If Barnes is surprised, concerned or shocked to see him, he doesn't show it. He doesn't say anything at all. He just slowly lowers the towel, raising one eyebrow in a silent question and it pisses Tony off so much that he has the audacity to just stand there mostly unscathed and careless, that he actually growls and in three steps he's upon him, pushing him backwards.

Barnes meets the wall with a thud. He doesn't flinch, despite the fact that he must nursing at least a couple of bruised ribs, and it makes Tony grind his molars so bad, he's sure the vein at his temple is gonna pop.

He's fine. He can see that with his own two eyes, and the med team must have seen that too, or they wouldn't have discharged him. Still, his fingers spread across Barnes's pecs on their own volition, his left hand caging him between the wall, while the right one traces his muscles, his ribs, the raised dots of skin that has broken into goosebumps, whether out of cold or whatever else, Tony doesn't know. The only thing he knows is Barnes’s heartbeat, fast and steady under is pads, and the rise and fall of his chest, coming faster and faster.

When Tony snaps out of his trance and raises his eyes, Barnes's are dark pools of hunger.

They look at each other for long seconds, electricity charging between them as they share air, and it's clear that Barnes is searching for something, some sense in all of it probably, but Tony is also sure he won't find it, cause sense deserted him long before they first started this.

Whatever this is. Always angry and always senseless and always so fucking soul consuming, every single time he's left feeling like he's been tumble dry.

Tony’s eyes dart downward, toward soft, pink lips, and follow the pink tip of Barnes's tongue as Barnes's licks them, leaving them moist and shiny. Tony's hand grasps Barnes by the nape of his neck, his wet hair like silk between his fingers. 

There should be some hesitation. Tony wishes there was hesitation on his part, before he closes the distance between them and kisses those lips like a starving man, but there really isn't. 

They're soft and pliant under his own, and it should be a clash of teeth and tongues, with as much finesse as he's mustering but somehow it isn't. Somehow it's passionate and desperate and real, so real despite the fact that he's holding Barnes too tight just in case he might disappear like smoke.

He licks Barnes’ lower lip, before not so gently biting it and then licking it again to soften the sting. Barnes sighs into his mouth, and Tony thinks that if it weren't for the wall supporting his weight, he would probably collapse on the floor. The thought drives him crazier, and he finds himself pressing his knee between Barnes's legs, hip meeting Barnes's hard cock, shamelessly rubbing his own against Barnes's upper thigh. His groan is swallowed by Barnes's mouth and he's only distantly aware of a towel falling to the floor, of hands resting on his hips.

He drops to his knees too fast and he can feel his joints protesting. He's too old for this shit, the marble hard and cold and unforgiving in a way he's gonna pay for later. But that's an irrelevant problem for future Tony. A Tony that is not consumed by the feel of powerful, muscular thighs under his hands. Thighs he wants wrapped around his hips while they rut against each other until both of them forget their names, forget their history, forget all the good reasons why they shouldn't be doing this.

He leans forward and rubs his cheek against Barnes's straining erection through his sweatpants, and he can feel Barnes shudder and gulp in shallow breaths. He feels like smirking. 

He mouths that cock through the fabric instead, and steals a glance up through his lashes. Barnes looks like he's barely holding himself together. From the corner of his eye Tony spots his fists, both the flesh and the vibranium one, opening and closing at his sides, like Barnes is not sure what to do with them, not sure what to hold on to.

Not for long. Another second of Tony inhaling his musky smell through the sweatpants and Barnes rests his fingers on Tony's head, mindful of his small cut, lightly carding them through his short hair, incredibly delicate, almost as if he's afraid Tony will swat his hands away. 

Tony doesn't know what pisses him off more, the fact that Barnes thinks his touch could be unwelcome, or the fact that it isn't.

He yanks Barnes's pants down in an abrupt motion so he doesn't have to dwell on that thought any longer. 

He's met with a sight that so far has never failed to make his mouth water. Barnes's cock is a work of art. Long, thick, uncut, slightly curved toward his belly, head weeping a little, framed by obliques that seem cut from marble. God, this man is unreal. 

Tony palms his own erection to relieve some of the pressure he feels building in his balls. It doesn't help. At all.

He licks a long stripe from base to head, once, then twice, savoring the salty taste before engulfing the fat tip in his mouth, tonguing the slit and the precum gathered there like the fucking treat it is, while his hands keep caressing those thighs in a up and down motion, Barnes's muscles trembling and tensing under his fingers.

He takes a deep breath through his nose, relishing the smell of body wash and metal and male and takes in his mouth as much as he can without choking. 

He's always been proud of his skill. He's good at giving head. Hell, he's a pro at it. There's few things he enjoys more than making his partners lose their minds to pleasure with a flick of his tongue. Besides, he had a lot of practice lately. Still, it's a struggle to fit more than half of Barnes's length before it reaches the back of his throat making him gag. He can feel spit smearing across his chin and goatee, and he knows he must look totally debauched and indecent. 

Another stolen glance finds Barnes watching him through half lidded eyes, glazed over with unconcealed hunger, his pupils engulfing the irises. 

A second later Barnes's head thuds against the wall behind him and this time Tony does smirk around a mouthful of cock. 

He takes that as his cue to really get into it, and he starts bobbing up and down on Barnes's hard on, slurping noisily, one hand covering what he can't reach with his mouth, the other fondling heavy balls, rolling them between nimble fingers, back and forth, the tempo increasing with each suck, with each caress.

Barnes is a mess of sighs and moans. 

It occurs to Tony that neither of them has said one word since he barged into Barnes's quarters and suddenly all he wants to hear is Barnes's voice calling his name, begging for more, taking it.

That's never happened before. Barnes is always quiet when they fuck, no matter how hard they go at it or how good it is, he's never even whispered a _ God, yes _, nor cursed Tony's name in abandon. 

Tony doesn't want to understand why that disappoints him. It's not like he doesn't know that Barnes is enjoying himself, some reactions cannot be faked even when they're not vocal. Nor he needs any confirmation on how mindblowing their sex is.

He knows.

Still, he hollows his cheeks and sucks and sucks and sucks until he chokes, until his nose almost reaches the thatch of trimmed hair at the base of Barnes's dick and his eyes water a little. It's worth it. It's so worth it to feel Barnes's flesh hand trace his cheek to stroke the corner of his mouth with his thumb to feel Tony's lips stretch wide around his cock, like Tony knows he loves.

And he does love it. His breath hitches, his muscles spasms, the fingers cradling his head tighten their hold in a way that is just this side of painful. 

Barnes is close to cuming and the thought is enough to make Tony moan and squeeze the base of his own cock hard to prevent himself from climaxing inside his jeans. 

He ups his game by contracting his throat around Barnes's cock, and Barnes shudders uncontrollably before suddenly stilling, both hands holding Tony by the hair, pushing his dick as far as Tony can take it. 

Warm cum hits the back of Tony's throat in spurts as Barnes's cock pulses again and again and again, and Tony swallows and swallows and laps at it like he's thirsting for it, the taste tangy and salty and addictive.

He keeps licking as the cock between his lips softens, small cat licks to clean every last drop of sperm until he gets it all and all that's left is an aftertaste at the back of his abused palate. 

He licks his lips too when he's done, smacking them for good measure, chasing the taste like vintage wine, before wiping his spit slicked mouth with the back of his hand.

As the haze and urgency that drove him to this point dissipate, rage and guilt hit him again. 

He's dying with the need to cum and yet he _ needs _ to get as far away from Barnes as he physically can. 

He can't do this. He shouldn't have done this.

Testily, Tony gets up, his knees protesting again, and he doesn't spare a second to savor Barnes's post orgasm blissfulness, knowing the openness of those blue eyes would tempt him to kiss those lips again, bring him to the bed a few feet away to take himself out of his pants and paint those abs with rope upon rope of his cum. Maybe he would even give into the temptation of freeing himself from his mental chains and he would break his silence rule to actually whisper into Barnes's ear how much he wants to fuck him, open him up with his tongue first and his fingers later until he's wet and pliant, ready to take Tony's cock until Barnes is left a mess of bruises sucked on his skin and a well used hole dripping cum. Or maybe he would whisper about how just last night three fingers inside him hadn't felt half as good as Barnes's cock, and how the mere memory of Barnes fucking him angry and fast up against the wall of that minuscle supply closet in the helicarrier on that last mission together had been enough to bring him over the brink in a couple of minutes. He had had to bite his fist to keep from screaming himself hoarse for how hard he'd cum.

He can't. He needs to get out. He needs to get drunk on 500 dollars a bottle whiskey and repeatedly bang his head against some hard surface until his brain starts working again and he stops making poor life choices. Until he's not consumed with the need to fuck and get fucked by the man who murdered his mother.

He's not two steps away when a hand to his wrist stops him. It's gentle but firm, and it's that gentleness more than the gesture that keeps Tony from simply shaking it off and walking away.

He doesn't turn around to face Barnes. He's afraid of what he might see. Worse, he's afraid of what he might do once he sees it.

It's a while before Barnes actually speaks. His thumb is tracing tiny circles on Tony's skin when he says just two words, two loaded words, voice low and raspy and hesitant. "Don't go."

Tony is glad Barnes can't see his face, cause he doesn't know what his expression would betray, eyes shut and brows furrowed, lips a thin line.

It's involuntary when his hand closes in a tight fist but when it happens Barnes drops his wrist almost like burned. Like that gesture equates Tony's answer for him.

Like a closed fist means a rejection and is not instead Tony's way to gather his strength and collect himself cause he doesn't know what the fuck he's doing and has no fucking clue as to what to do.

Tony takes a long, deep breath, lets it fill his lungs until it burns, until they feel like bursting. He releases it slowly through his teeth and with it, he forces his muscles to unclench. 

He can feel all his guilt, his worries, his anger like a physical weight pressing on his chest, making it hard to breathe. They can go fuck themselves just for one night longer. He can be miserable again tomorrow. Tonight he's too tired to fight himself. Tonight he can have this. He wants to have this. 

Tonight he doesn't care.

He turns, and Barnes doesn't have the time to school his expression and his eyes are as open and big and surprised as Tony imagined they would be. They're the most beautiful shade of blue Tony's ever seen in the low evening light coming from outside the windows.

In two steps they're sharing the same breath again and Tony cradles Barnes's face between his hands, Barnes's scruff pleasantly scratchy under his pads. His thumbs caress the corners of his mouth where dimples show everytime a rare smile crosses Barnes's beautiful face. He wants to see that fucking smile.

When Tony kisses him again, it feels like the first time he ever leapt from a building in his Iron Man suit. Like the moment of suspensefulness before his repulsors kicked in, where he was falling and not yet flying and he was sure of himself and his tech and yet his heart still felt like it was gonna beat out of his chest.

It's a different kiss than all the ones they shared before. There's no urgency or anger nor hunger. It's lips grazing each other over and over, it's teeth gently biting, it's tongues caressing each other and unhurriedly exploring each other's mouths, fingers brushing through hair, bodies seeking each other's warmth.

When they separate, they're both panting. 

Tony is very aware of his still very hard cock, trapped inside his jeans, the zipper digging into it uncomfortably, yet he feels no rush whatsoever to chase after a quick orgasm. 

"Okay," Tony says, looking straight into Barnes's eyes. He exhales. "Okay." 

He's gentle when he takes Barnes's metal hand and he leads him to the bed. Barnes sits then scoots backwards, leaning on his elbows and Tony straddles him and leans forward, left hand by Barnes's head bearing most of his weight, bodies flush, right hand free to roam the planes of Barnes's muscled chest, the ridges of his washboard abs, the satin-like skin of Barnes's quickly filling cock.

He feels ready to burst when Barnes frees his cock from the harsh confines of his jeans, almost soaked through with how much precum he leaked. He kicks them and his shoes to the floor in a quick and practiced manner, before hastily and fastidiously throwing away his shirt as well.

Barnes's hand immediately splays over his arc reactor, its glow bathing them both in blue, like a cocoon made of light. Tony wonders if Barnes can feel how fast his heart is beating.

When their cocks touch, it feels like touching a live wire and his entire body goes taut, pleasure exploding behind his lids. 

"Fuck," he mutters, chasing that feeling again, rutting shamelessly against Barnes, hips moving slowly, in a sensual dance where cock brushes cock, where their pants fill a room that smells like sex.

They're too far gone for a proper kiss, only sharing breath and air and a tiny thread of saliva whenever their lips touch, as their movements get more and more frantic and Tony is forced to lean on both elbows to find leverage to thrust his hips faster, desperate for release. He could wrap a hand around them both and stroke both their cocks to orgasm, squeezing the lengths and thumbing the tips, smearing precum until they cum on each other. He could. Or Barnes could. But neither of them do it, both content to move against each other, sweat and precum creating a blessed friction. 

He's close. He's so fucking close he can taste it on the tip of his tongue. He wets his lips, his hips jerking gracelessly, fast and devoid of any rhythm, his breath fast too, his heart faster. 

He's lost in Barnes. In Barnes's sweat soaked body, Barnes's smell, Barnes's tiny gasps of pleasure. Barnes's cool vibranium fingers caressing his cheek, thumb lightly stroking his cheekbone.

It builds and builds and builds until it snaps and Tony is gone, eyes screwed shut, stars dancing in his vision, balls emptying all over Barnes's stomach, cum splattering everywhere again and again and again. It coats his dick, his pecs, some reaching his chin too, most pooling on Barnes's belly, Tony's whine a pitiful sound of raw pleasure.

Barnes is not too far behind and in two, three, four more thrusts his eyes shut too, his lips open in a silent "o", and all his muscles tense as more cum paints his abs, his cock pulsing against Tony's.

It's the most beautiful sight Tony's ever seen and he feels his dick twitch in a valiant effort to shoot some more.

All his strength gone, Tony barely avoids collapsing on top of Barnes, managing at the last second to faceplant right beside him instead. They're both breathing heavily, sweat already drying on their flushed skin.

Tony's head is angled enough that he can see Barnes's chest rising and falling, can see his right hand reaching for the mess on his stomach, fingers drawing lazy circles in their mixed spent. The sight makes his heart stutter, then skip a beat entirely when Barnes brings those wet fingertips to his mouth and licks, his pink tongue darting to taste their combined flavor.

A high pitched noise escapes the back of Tony's throat. 

God, he wishes he could get hard again straight away. He's too tired to even contemplate moving a finger but that fucking mouth is made for sin. He's sure would find the strength to grab Barnes by the hair, to hold him in place and fuck into that gorgeous mouth fast and brutal until Barnes choked on his cock. He would cum all over that face, white stripes marking those lips, those long lashes, that scruff. Then he would kiss him again and taste himself on that tongue.

He sighs and gets up with a groan on unsteady legs instead, cursing his regular metabolism, all his muscles feeling like jelly. Barnes tenses up, Tony can see it, but he ignores him, stepping around his discarded clothing on the floor, and makes a beeline for the bathroom. 

He's quick to relieve himself and perfunctorily washes up his dick and stomach of drying cum. He'd need to spend a good half an hour in the shower to wash away all the sweat and the fatigue and the residue of the fear he felt today. Maybe if the water was cold enough it would freeze his brain and he wouldn't have to think anymore.

When he takes a look at the huge mirror above the sink, he barely recognizes his reflection. His hair is a mess, strands going in each and every direction from fingers carding through them, his skin is flushed, his eyes wild, his lips swollen and red from kissing.

The small cut above his eyebrow must have stopped bleeding a while ago. He spares a second to clean the dry blood as best as he can before soaking a towel in warm water and going back to the bedroom.

Barnes is still splayed on the bed in the exact same position Tony left him. He is eerily still as Tony makes his way back to him, but his eyes are tracking his every movement. When he spots the wet towel some of the tension seems to drain from his shoulders and he reaches for it.

Tony swats his hand away and kneels on the bed, using the cloth to gently wipe away the mess on Barnes's torso in small strokes. He takes his time, starting from his flaccid cock, carefully cleaning up his balls, his lower abs, then working his way up to his chest. Even when all proof of their pleasure has disappeared from his skin, Tony still lingers, brushing the towel over a dusky pink, puckered nipple, over the short, barely there hair dusting Barnes's pecs. 

Barnes is so still he must be holding his breath. There's a wary watchfulness as Tony, almost hypnotized, draws random patterns on his skin with a blunt nail, grazing over the planes of his ribs, over bruises that are already green and yellow and look days old instead of mere hours.

"It doesn't hurt," Barnes says, reading Tony's mind. Was he too brutish in his pushing? Too forceful in his thrusts? Did he hold him too tightly?

Barnes would have taken it in silence. Barnes always takes it in silence. He gives back just as good as he gets, but Tony never once stopped to worry about whether or not he was hurting him, causing him more pain. 

Physically or otherwise.

The irony that he rushed here to check how much Barnes was hurt is not lost on Tony.

Still, Tony's eyes find Barnes's and his cut stings a little when he raises his eyebrow.

"I've had way worse." Barnes shrugs, and the movement emphasizes the angry white scars where marred skin meets smooth dark vibranium. "It's fine."

Tony spends a while longer cataloging each bruise with the tip of his finger before throwing the towel on the floor and lying on his back beside him. 

The room is quiet for a very long time.

He should leave, Tony thinks. Usually, he would have left long before now.

Don't go, Barnes had said. Okay, he'd replied. But now he really doesn't want to go and he doesn't know what to make of it.

He could sleep, Tony thinks. He could close his eyes and get lulled by the rhythm of their combined breathing, safe and sated and content. 

They could nap for a couple of hours then get up and hunt for food before coming back to bed and have some more mindblowing sex.

The thought should be worrying and maybe it's worrying that it isn't. 

"Don't do that again," Tony says, some time later, voice hoarse from disuse and from sucking cock. His throat still feels pretty raw.

"Do what?"

_ Get swallowed by a falling building _, he thinks.

_ Give me another heart attack like the one you gave me earlier _, he thinks. 

_ Make me sick with anxiety over whether you're alive or dead _, he thinks.

"Get hurt," he says, staring at the ceiling. 

He can hear Barnes- Bucky's quiet intake of breath, can feel his gaze on him.

"It's a dangerous job."

Tony angles his face in his direction, narrowing his eyes, unimpressed. 

Bucky looks more at ease now, relaxed in a way he wasn't before. His eyes are a little less haunted, less sad. His lips a little softer around the edges. 

He curls on his side facing Tony, searching his face for a long time. 

"I'll be more careful next time," he says, finally. 

Like he isn't always careful. Like some things are not completely out of his control, no matter how careful he can be.

Tony's eyes go back to the ceiling, the room practically engulfed in the shadows by now, the strongest source of light coming from the gentle glow of his arc reactor.

"Not good enough."

It is a dangerous thing, what they do, and as careful as they are, as ready as they can be, so many things can go wrong each damn time, any mission could be their last.

"It's what we do," Bucky says, not unkindly. "What do you want me to say?"

Tony has no idea. The only thing he knows is that he doesn't want to be that afraid ever again, and that thought scares him even more. He's too tired to consider why that is the case.

"I don't want you to say anything, I just don't want you to get hurt."

He regrets it as soon as it's out of his lips. He shouldn't have said that. Why the fuck did he say that? 

He resolutely keeps staring at the ceiling, embarrassed that he gave something away, something he didn't even know existed, something that must be unwelcome. 

But Bucky is silent. He doesn't ask questions, doesn't demand explanations Tony can't give. Doesn't question why Tony showed up uninvited in his quarters and sucked him dry, desperate and more than a tad unhinged. Doesn't tell Tony he has no ground to make unreasonable requests. Doesn't remind Tony that at most they're just two colleagues who have a bloody history between them, who barely talk to each other, who sometimes fuck like they're punishing each other.

"I'll try," he simply says instead.

Tony hums noncommittally. 

"I'll try very, very hard." 

There's a note of humor in his tone that Tony never heard before, at least not directed at him. When he sneaks a peek in Bucky's direction, there's a small, almost shy smile curving Bucky's lips, and his dimples are showing. 

Tony feels something break loose inside his chest. He wants to poke those dimples with his forefinger, wants to trace the contours of those lips with his thumb before smoothing that small cleft on his chin. He wants to feel that scruff prickle his pads and kiss that mouth and fall asleep next to his warmth.

He throws an arm over his eyes to resist doing any of those things and hums again instead.

"You do that."

**Author's Note:**

> This was unbeta'd and english is not my first language… I must have edited and reviewed it 100 times but I'm 100% sure I missed something, so if you spotted anything that didn't make sense, please let me know… and if you enjoyed it, do let me know as well, you'll make my day!  
Thank you for reading this story :)


End file.
